The Scary Week

I tried to approach this living adventure with as few preconceived notions as possible.

Notions about the people, the culture, the politics and mechanics of how a society and its bureaucracy function.

Having already been caught short due to something I had read or heard prior to landing in China only to find that the opposite of what I had misinformed myself was true, I did my best to not read too much into the dire warnings about Polish people and Polish bureaucracy.

In fact, right off the bat, after only a few days here I found that Poles are neither rude nor taciturn, as online forums report; in general they seem to enjoy a smile and a wave as much as Americans do... not that I walk around, grinning maniacally and flitting my fingers all the time.

There have been several times, at the bus stop, on a tram or in a shop that people just start talking with me...

I have no idea what they’re saying but I can state, with some veracity, that they are not asking me where I come from or if I would teach them English, as happened so maddeningly often in China.

I think that, here, the phenomenon of total strangers talking to me is due to the fact that I look like everyone else, so it would be feasible that I would also speak the language.

So... people talking to you and apparently accepting you: that’s... scary?

No, we haven’t got to the scary parts yet. I just wanted to illustrate that I made an effort to not believe everything I read about Polish people and my experiences so far have validated that point.

So, how are you? How was your Halloween – see many ghouls? Or, in other parts of the world: did you spend a portion of time with your ancestors on All Saints Day? 

Here, it was a quiet weekend; a lot of writing, a bit of walking and a couple of movies.

I was really looking forward to Monday because I had gotten a notice in the mail that there was a parcel waiting for me at the post office; a parcel I was eagerly anticipating!

It was my prescription refill. If you take maintenance medications and start running low, you too would tend to hover around the mailbox... right?

And so it was, that bright Monday morning, notification in hand, I sauntered into the post office – which actually resembles a small shop with its magazines, books, toys and snacks on display.

The impression was reinforced by it being located in a shopping mall, but the poczta (Polish word for post) it was, because the signs pointing to it said so. 

My turn at the counter yielded... not the anticipated meds refill but a registered letter that I had to show my passport to claim – it’s ok; I had anticipated needing identification and, for that reason, had brought it along.

Who could have sent me a registered letter?

Well, the post office did – and I am not being facetious in saying that.

Apparently unsatisfied with the customs declaration attached to the parcel, they wanted me to prove how much I had paid for those goods in order to levy the proper customs duty.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that when, overcome by curiosity, I opened the letter immediately after leaving the post office.

All I saw was a formal letter that looked very much like an official summons, complete with case number and stamped several times in conspicuous places, apparently in an effort to maximize its official appearance.

I couldn’t read much of it. Dni means day and there were two instances of it: 7 dni and 14 dni...

In my mind they turned into ‘you have 7 days to turn yourself in for your 14 days of detention.’

There were a couple more words I could pick out but...

This is it! Barely here a month and already in trouble with the law! Now they won’t grant me a visa; in fact, based on this summons, they’re getting ready to throw me out of the country...

And how am I going to pull my suitcase with my arm still busted up???

It was a valiant fight, keeping panic at bay, and imagine the wellspring of patience I had to tap into in order to type that entire letter into a translator to find out what it’s actually saying? 

Much relief ensued after discovering that I only needed to email, fax or present my purchase receipt so they can verify the proper customs duty to be paid.

I chose to email it. No way was I going to present in person!

That was scare #1.

Before moving on to scare #2, let me give you an update on my arm; the one I busted up a couple of weeks back.

It is doing better. I now have limited use of it, but there will be some time before it is 100%. To wit, I am typing this one-handed.

Because small manual tasks requiring the use of two hands are now unreasonably difficult, I’ve taken steps to make things a bit easier, such as putting bus fare and phone in my right coat pocket so I don’t have to grapple with my purse’s zipper.

Or, if I’m going shopping, I’ll slide my card in that pocket for the simple reason that, if I can’t grapple with my purse’s zippers, fumbling with the wallet would be completely out of the question!    

This evening, after being hard at work all day, I decided to walk a bit, just to the corner store, to pick up a few things before the weekend shutdown.

Stores here generally close on Saturday afternoon and don’t reopen until Monday morning. That’s one preconceived notion that has been borne out.

Tonight, I would wear my parka. The light wind breaker I wore on my last venture out would not do in this chilly, foggy weather, so clean out the right pocket. Oh, yeah, and grab some...

WAIT... WHERE’S MY BANK CARD???*

The last time I had used it was when I bought my microwave, a couple of days ago. I had also bought a shopping cart to pull it home and up the stairs with and, as is now my habit, stuffed everything – bank card, sales receipt and the money I had pulled out of the ATM, into my coat pocket.

And then, the memory: coming back into the store hoping the cashier overseeing the self-checkouts had a pair of scissors (to cut the wire ties the wheel assemblies were attached to the frame of my new cart with), and she gestured toward the main service desk...

She must have thought I had returned to ask about my card that I didn’t even know was missing yet.

Instant change of destination for tonight’s walk, but no departure before typing a vital phrase into my phone’s translator.

And then, hotfoot it over to Carrefour! Finally, it is my turn at the crowded service desk and I hold out my phone, its desperate message plainly visible: ‘I left my bank card here 2 dni ago.’

This helpful clerk called the manager, who went through the log and, after verifying my identity, hurried to the back of the store to retrieve my card...

… and all’s well that ends well, and even better than if I had tried to reclaim my card on the day I lost it because I would not have had my passport with me. (I made sure I had it tonight!)

All of this just goes to prove that you cannot believe everything you read online.

From my experience, Polish people are no more rude than any other population; in fact, my dealings with people here so far have been overwhelmingly positive.

As for the dire warnings about rigid bureaucracy and other intolerance?

I’ve yet to see any evidence of such. Of course, so far my dealings have been only peripheral: opening a bank account, finding a place to live and other steps one must take in establishing oneself.   

Next week, when I start the residence permit application, I may sing a different tune.

But for now, I am just glad that this scary week is over!

* I have 2 bank cards: one for the account I opened here and one for my stateside account, where the bulk of my money is. It was that card that I had inadvertently left at the store, hence the massive panic!